


Coefficient of friction

by beautifulwhensarcastic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky is broken but tries hard, F/M, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Past Bucky Barnes/Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Past polyamorous relationship, Peggy is bad at communicating her feelings, Recovery, Symptoms of complicated grief disorder, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, sex instead of having a conversation, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 02:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13848204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifulwhensarcastic/pseuds/beautifulwhensarcastic
Summary: For years Peggy has been running away from Bucky. Now she's the one to search him out. She just han't taken into consideration there are feelings still involved.





	Coefficient of friction

**Author's Note:**

> Considering how rare this rare-pair is, I should've written something fluffy, but why do that if I can create a dysfunctional mess. 
> 
> To the few people who read it – I'm not sorry.

With a choked moan, she curls around him. In contrast to her usual, distant mien sexual intimacy makes Peggy clingy. She buries her face in the crook of Bucky's neck. Hot puffs of breath tickle the skin over his rapid pulse. 

He holds her hips down in unyielding grip as he finishes inside her. 

A shiver ripples through her body. Bucky quickly moves his arms to wrap around her. It's been too long since he had her soft body so close, he's not about to pass on savoring the feeling. Not after four fucking years of dead silence in the aether. 

Peggy doesn't grapple with him. Which is a pleasant change given the last time they had sex - it was violent; more about hurting each other than comfort and pleasure. 

If asked, Peggy would say they're unable to feel or provide comfort.  _She's_  not wired like that. Bucky, however, knows it's bullshit. He's been there to witness her open vulnerability, her softness and gentleness. They're not a rare occurrence. At least they haven't used to be. 

Then everything went to hell. 

Sighing, Peggy wiggles out of his embrace and sits up. He's still inside her, half-hard, and she purposely clenches her muscles, making him hiss.

There are small crescent marks on Bucky's chest and shoulders where she dug in her fingernails as she rode him. Peggy traces them with her fingertips then touches his cheek. 

Bucky's got a beard now. Not a few days worth stubble he used to have after longer missions, but a neatly trimmed, conditioned beard - something, Peggy has noticed, that became popular among men over the past years. She scratches her nails along the line of his jaw, pondering how the orgasm he'd given her as he went down on her was worth suffering the burns she's going to have on her thighs tomorrow. 

His hair is different, too. It's cut shorter now - an elegant haircut which he styles daily.

It seems everything about James nowadays is styled. Even the clothes he wears to work.

She saw the pictures of him. The official ones, as well those she acquired through a snarky PI, Jessica Jones. 

Peggy thinks Bucky's unaware of her little spying kink. Then again, she knows that poster boy for a private, military contracting firm hadn't lost his deadly skills.

She has no proof, but she's sure it was him who got her out of that hellhole in Venezuela last year. The Agency wouldn't risk jeopardizing their ongoing game in Southern America to save one agent, especially one who tended to be problematic. Peggy would be dead, if not for a lone mercenary.

Peggy still hadn't figured out how exactly Bucky has learned of her situation, she guesses he's got his eyes on her like she has on him. Heavily drugged and bleeding, she could've as well hallucinated his presence, but the way her savior held her as he carried her out of the filthy cell was all too familiar, too intimate. No one at the hospital was able to describe how the man who brought her in had looked like, only that he had a mask covering half of his face.

There was only one formation that wore such. And only one soldier left alive. 

Supposedly inactive, living a steady life of a consultant and trainer in a polished skyscraper.

Bucky might've turned his life around, but not everything about him has changed. His eyes are the same clear blue and he watches her intently, with that annoying patience of someone skilled in defusing a ticking bomb that is Peggy Carter. 

Averting her gaze to the side, Peggy shifts and slides off of him. She rolls onto her back and stretches her legs. Muscles in her thighs quiver, making Peggy curse the last three years of celibacy, which she maintained for some insane reason. 

A reason that lies next to her.

She couldn't make herself fuck anyone else. Not for the lack of trying, though. 

Peggy rubs a hand over her face then drops it on the pillow under her head, nervously playing with a loose curl of her hair. Her other hand rests low on her abdomen, index finger mindlessly flicking the stripe of hair covered in slick and cum. 

_Shit_ , she curses inwardly. 

While it's wickedly satisfying to know Bucky's not banging anyone, at least not in his apartment, she starts to regret the lack of condoms. Her time in Eastern Europe carried over and she missed her Depo shot. Contraceptives were the last on her mind when she jumped on a plane to get here as soon as possible.

It's not like she was planning to fuck James when she knocked on his door. 

But she was soaked head to toe from running in the downpour for three blocks, because her cab got stuck in the traffic and she just couldn't fucking wait. Bucky helped her out of the coat. He brushed away wet hair from her face and before she knew it they were kissing. 

No, she was kissing him. Her fingers in his hair, holding him in place as she sucked on his bottom lip. Bucky was never slow to react to an invitation. 

He got them naked and into the bedroom in a rapid pace. The slowdown came when he hooked her legs over his shoulders and buried his face between her thighs. He always liked to take his time eating her out, deaf to her whining. 

Bucky's leg bumps Peggy's foot as he moves beside her. He sighs, half exasperated, and sits up.

Peggy expects him to leave the bed, maybe walk over to the liquor cabinet to pour a glass of something stronger. She could really use that kick right now. 

Instead, he just leans over and grabs the duvet, pulling it up to cover them both.  He tugs it up to Peggy's belly, leaving her chest conveniently exposed.

"Your feet are cold. As always." Bucky says, turning onto his side.

He props his cheek on his left hand, cupping Peggy's breast with his other. His fingers are calloussed, but nimble as ever. Bucky pinches her nipple and tweaks it until she moans. A jolt shots down to her core when he bends his head down and closes his mouth around the stiffened peak. Heat fills her belly anew.

It's frustrating how quickly she rouses. She can still feel his cum trickling down the curve of her ass, but her body is happily readying for more. 

"Sucking on my tits is supposed to get my feet warmer?" Peggy groans, grabbing a fistful of Bucky's hair.

"Mhmm." He releases her nipple with a wet pop then nips on her chin. "Even the tip of your nose gets warm when you're turned on," with a chuckle, Bucky rubs his nose along hers. 

Peggy flushes. Tenderness of the act crushes her chest.

"Don't." She closes her eyes to stop the tears that suddenly prickle under her eyelids. 

Turning her head to the side, Peggy goes rigid. Shutting off became much easier than admitting how tattered inside she still is. She can deal with sex - the need and pleasure, and the sting of pain that comes with it. The emotions, however, she'd rather not address. 

Bucky stays unmoved for a moment, studying her profile. Her bottom lip quivers and  _fuck_  he wants to hold her, but she won't let him. A part of him is tempted to throw her out and slam the door behind her, but at heart he's a masochistic moron who craves every minute with her. Even if it's like walking barefoot on broken glass. 

Peggy has refused any comfort he tried to provide since Steve's death. Like the bottomless hole Steve's absence left wasn't a punishment enough. 

Bucky pulls away. He kicks the covers away and sits on the edge of the bed, putting his head in his hands. 

"Don't what?" He hisses, not even peering at her over his shoulder. "Don't show feelings, or don't have any?" 

Swiftly, he stands up and walks into the bathroom. He leaves the door open - not an invitation, which he knows Peggy won't take (not this moment), but to make it harder for her to leave. Bucky has no doubt Peggy would leave his apartment if he let her out of his sight completely. She shows at least minimal will to work things out when forced to stay in close proximity, but give her an open space and she'll flee. 

They already have a record of him chasing after her. Including that night in Herat not two weeks after Steve's death when, under the false pretense of being called in by her CO, Peggy tried to leave. Bucky caught up to her at the private airport, disarming and knocking out three officers escorting her, despite being unable to use his injured left arm. 

_I'm all in._  He said to her that night. A second time in his life when he affirmed his commitment - the first one taking place about a year earlier, in Morocco, when the three of them struggled with the awkwardness of the first morning after. Even then Bucky knew he's falling for them both, he saw no reason to deny it. At his words Steve smiled that pretty smile of his and Peggy gave up on her rationalizing rant. Few months later he was facing Peggy on a cold night, pleading her to stay with him. 

Maybe he should've yelled at her. Explosive arguments seemed to reach her more effectively than normal communication. Both Steve and Peggy's anger tended to ignite like a fuse. And burned out just as quickly. Bucky has never been so quick tempered, he couldn't go for Peggy's throat despite her provocation. 

It hadn't changed.

Bucky splashes cold water over his face then wets a cloth to clean himself. He dampens a second cloth, avoiding looking in the mirror while doing so. He knows what he'd see and really doesn't want to stare at his own defeated reflection.

When he walks out, wet cloth in his hand, Peggy's not in bed. She's standing by the window, duvet wrapped around her body. Instead of watching the traffic below, like one might do to calm down, her gaze is focused on one point ahead. On a house in a row of brownstones on the other side of a small park. A curtain of heavy rain blurs the outside world, but that one house is so clear to her. 

"I though I'm the only one," Peggy whispers when Bucky steps closer. 

"You never were." He says, a bitter edge to his voice. 

Peggy swallows a lump in her throat, briefly closing her eyes. Even as his own life spiraled down in a series of reckless, unhealthy acts, Bucky did his best to comfort her. As if she needed it more than him. There couldn't be any comparison between their grieving, they both lost Steve and a part of themselves with him. Still, inability to let go of anger gave Peggy a sick sense of superiority over Bucky's determination to move past the pain.

"I know. I-" She takes a deep breath before admitting - "It was easier to convince myself being alone is the only choice." 

Placing her hand on the window, Peggy traces the outline of the brownstone with her fingertip.

Steve used to live there. Or at least stayed whenever he got a longer break between missions. Though barely inhabited, the place held a particularly cozy atmosphere. She liked being there, liked how the laughter lingered within the yellow walls. When there the three of them could pretend there's a homey life awaiting them once they leave their work branch. 

Peggy lost that hope a long ago. Or - as Bucky would put it - she abandoned it.

"If that's what you want..." Bucky trails off.

His tone lacks any anger, as if he gave up on fighting. She wouldn't blame him for that, she's aware how fucking tiring grappling with her has to be. And he's been doing that for years now.

Bucky hands her the cloth, which she doesn't take. Peggy stays unmoved for a long moment then bows her head slightly. She pushes the duvet off her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

"I don't want to be alone." Peggy slowly turns to face Bucky. 

It's not what she came here for, yet she wraps her fingers around the wrist of his outstretched arm, pushing it gently down. She steps closer. So close her warmth seems to seep into Bucky's skin. Musky scent of sex bears hints of Peggy's favourite perfume - a sweet tinge of bergamot. Bucky sucks breath through his teeth, his grip on the cloth tightening. A drop of water splashes on the floor. 

Jaw clenched, Bucky forces his gaze to lift from where Peggy's breasts press against his chest and looks past her onto the rainy splatter on the window.

Fingers itch to touch her. Knead the soft flesh of her ass, slip a hand between her legs where he knows she's still wet. 

"We should talk first." He says, but doesn't step back. What's the point of keeping appearances if he's already halfhard against her hip. 

Peggy sighs. She leans her forehead on his shoulder. A slight tremble rocks her body and Bucky instinctively wraps an arm around her. 

"I know," she admits, her voice suddenly weak. When she lifts her head to look him in the eye he's met with gaze shiny with tears. This time she doesn't try to mask them. Nor is it an attempt at manipulating him. Peggy Carter has many techniques of manipulation, but crying was never among them. 

He throws the damp cloth aside then slides his wet hand up Peggy's spine. Fingers sneak under her hair and curl around the nape of her neck. His thumb flicks her lobe before pressing below it, a strong grip to ensure she won't slip away. 

With his other hand still wrapped around her waist, he holds her close. 

Inertia of the intimate moment dulls Peggy's vigilance - besides, Bucky's always been exceptionally fast - so it takes her by surprise when he sweeps her legs from under her and topples them to the floor. The duvet partially amortizes the fall, but it's bundled only beneath her head and Peggy still yelps at the contact with the cold floor. 

Bucky braces his left arm beside Peggy's head, shifting his weight onto it as he trails his right hand down her body. There's no hesitation nor modesty in the way Peggy spreads her legs when his hand skims over her abdomen. His fingers scratch through her sticky curls then dip lower. 

He rubs his thumb over her, making Peggy moan. She wraps her fingers around the wrist of his hand beside her head, other hand clutches onto Bucky's moving arm. Even as her nails pierce the skin on his biceps he doesn't ease the merciless force with which his fingers fuck her.

Peggy lolls her head to the side, teeth sinking into Bucky's forearm to muffle the whimpers. Bucky's left arm is covered in scars - a mesh of discolored protrusions creeping up onto his shoulder. He lost partial feeling in this arm, but Peggy pays it equal attention she would the uninjured one. Pulling her head up as much as she can, she licks a stripe of his skin then mouths at the crook of his elbow. 

"This isn't exactly talking," she hums against Bucky's skin, before dropping her head back onto the floor. 

"Conversations go better when parties aren't frustrated." Bucky lowers his head to nip at Peggy's lip. 

To her dismay, he stops and withdraws his hand. He wraps his fingers around his cock, smearing Peggy's slick over throbbing flesh. Peggy's hand that's been clawing at his arm slides down, fingers moving over his own.

She squeezes him harder, enjoying the way Bucky's groan breaks a little. He knocks her hand away with a grunt, making Peggy giggle.

"Are you flustered Jam- _fuck_!" Her back arches when he thrusts in.

He bottoms out and it hurts a little. Peggy bangs her fists on the floor when he pins her hips down, then wraps her arms around him, fingertips painfully digging into his back. 

"Move." She whines, raking her nails down his back. "Bucky!" 

Peggy's ready to slap him when he finally complies. Holding her gaze, Bucky slowly pulls out before sliding back in. An obscene wet sound follows his next, harder move and they both huff a little laugh. 

As he builds a gradually increasing pace, Peggy moves her hands up, combing her fingers through his hair. Bucky smiles at her, his forehead dropping to hers, and he shuts his eyes.

She forgot how often Bucky smiles during sex. 

Their only other encounter over the past four years was branded with pain and anger. It was a hell of a great fucking, but she missed that mirth which Bucky usually brings to sex. His charming smile with his lips swollen and wet, or quiet chuckles tickling her belly. 

She tips her head up and kisses him. Softly, which seems to startle Bucky for a second. He stills, blinking his eyes open to look at her. Peggy beams at him, amused at his confused face. She leans up to peck his lips. Then again. She peppers his mouth with little kisses until Bucky snorts and captures her lips in a less playful demand. 

He kisses her like he fucks her, with a bite of pain.

When he slips out of her much later Peggy concludes she's really glad she's not the one who'll have to clean the floor. Bucky doesn't seem to care much for the mess as he helps her up and into the shower, leaving the duvet and sticky stains behind them. 

They keep hands to themselves in Bucky's indecently huge, walk-in shower, a sense of dread arising now that the adrenline was out of the way. The scent of woody shower gel is deceivingly comforting, but Peggy's heartrate increases as her brain regains its proper functioning. 

She glances at Bucky as he tips his head under the spray, letting the water wash the bubbles out. He looks relaxed, so at ease it wounds her to know she's going to hurt him soon.

Peggy could find many excuses not to have the dreaded conversation, but she's honestly tired of avoidance. 

She's also decided (bravely, in her opinion) to stop denying how much she wants to stay with Bucky. 

However, what she brought with her could destroy the new foundations before they properly set. In hindsight, Peggy knows she should've started with the reason for her presence at Bucky's apartment. Showing him the piece of paper which she stole from the TOC before anyone even noticed its existence will possibly break anything Bucky hoped to rebuild between them. 

He's going to be pissed she didn't show him that photo before they got naked. 

In all honestly, Peggy is mad at herself, too. Coldblooded skills which made her one of the bests agents aren't ones she should rely on in her private life, but the line between the two has blurred long ago. She's not sure it's amendable. 

When they step out of the shower Peggy focuses on toweling herself and not peeking Bucky's way. He's less thorough in drying himself off, quickly throwing the towel into the hamper and walking around the bathroom naked. Which isn't helpful in regrouping her thoughts. With a quiet groan, Peggy hides her face in the towel and rubs it a little too forcefully over her skin. 

"Jesus, you got me good." Bucky whistles, staring at his reflection in the mirror. 

He leans forward, inspecting the trail of small, red marks on his torso. Turning slightly to the left he flexes his right arm. Marks Peggy's fingernails left there are even worse. In two spots she cut him to blood. 

"I'm not apologizing." She snorts, not even glancing his way. 

"Don't you have any bathrobes?" Wrapping a towel around herself, Peggy looks around the bathroom. For a place so big and fancy lack of fluffy bathrobes seems really weird. 

"Nope," Bucky shrugs. "Come on, I'll give you something to wear." 

Peggy follows him back to the bedroom, stopping on the fluffy carpet in front of the bed. Beside the bed it's the only soft surface in Bucky's bedroom. Possibly in the whole apartment, as she thinks of it. Not that she had a chance to look around much, but a glimpse of the couch in the living room as Bucky steered them through suggested a rather uncomfortable place to lounge. As if Bucky wanted to limit spaces in which he could get too comfortable. Or his guests. 

Bucky hands her a T-shirt then puts on a pair of sweats. He walks out of the bedroom and Peggy follows, her eyes glued to his bare back that's still covered in faint red lines where she scratched him. She won't deny it's a rather satisfying sight. 

They cross the living room, which truly looks more representative than relaxing, and into the open kitchen separated from the room by a long marble counter. Surprisingly, Bucky's kitchen looks very much living, not just for show. There's even a metal casing by the window with herbs growing in it. 

As she watches him move around the space it becomes clear Bucky spends in the kitchen a lot of time. It's a discovery Peggy never expected to make. 

"Hungry?" He asks and starts taking ingredients out of the fridge, not even waiting for her answer. Of one thing he could always be sure - Peggy's appetite. 

"Sure," Peggy slips onto one of the stools by the counter. She hadn't eaten in over twenty hours and rough coupling burned out any reserves she had. 

"I could also use a drink." She stretches lazily then drops her arms on the counter and leans her head on them.

Bucky stills for a second, muscles in his back tightening. When he turns to her, however, his face is blank. He puts two bowls on the countertop and starts methodically cracking eggs - whites into one bowl, yolks into the other - with a skill of someone who does it daily. 

"There's no alcohol here." He says. 

Peggy's head shots up. She straightens, watching him closely as the implication of his words sinks in. Bucky has a reason to have cleaned his place of any liquor and, though surprised, Peggy is glad he's maintaining his regime. Picking him from the bottom he had drunk himself to couldn't have been easy. Though she was the one who turned his heavy ass to the side before he choked on his own vomit, Peggy knows she wasn't much help in his sobering process. 

Bucky did it all by himself. While she looked for death all over the globe.

"Okay," Peggy nods. "A juice then?" She really needs to wet her throat.

He pours her a glass of thick tomato juice and adds a celery stem to it. At Peggy's unamused glare he smirks, very much pleased with his joke. 

They spend the next few minutes in silence, Bucky whisking the egg whites, Peggy sipping on her juice with a nearly religious devotion. Muscles in Bucky arm flex, causing a few veins to protrude. It reminds her of a different vein on his body, which she followed with wet, open mouthed kisses... It's definitely not the road her thoughts should be taking right now, so instead, she looks around. anywhere but at him.

Bucky's apartment is all light colors and shiny surfaces, modern, but not  _too_  modern. What she first took as a display straight from a catalogue proves to show more of Bucky's personality if you notice the details - books stacked in every nook, a poster from Stark's science convention; colourful, wooden animals Bucky bought at Maasai Market in Nairobi. 

"You have to pay a lot for the housekeeping services." Peggy mutters, commenting on the spotless state of his apartment. 

Bucky snorts, glancing at her briefly. For a woman who's blunt when speaking on any topic that would make a regular person uncomfortable, Peggy is a fucking disaster at addressing her own feelings - a conversation they should be having right now. 

"I clean myself," he answers, slowly adding stiff egg whites spoon by spoon into the whisked yolks. "I've got a schedule."

"Cleaning schedule?" Peggy looks at him skeptically, her forehead creasing. 

"I've got a schedule for everything." Bucky sighs, ducking his head low. He seems reluctant to explain it and though Peggy has it in her nature to fish for every detail, she's ready to let it go. After a moment, however, Bucky speaks again.

"Schedule helps. It gives me a sense of security."

Peggy's fingers on the glass tighten. Slowly, she puts the glass aside then fidgets with her hands nervously before tucking them between her thighs. It hit her just now that she hasn't felt any sense of security until now, here. Pushing through dangerous cases, involving herself more than any intel agent should, it gave her mind a break from dealing with her private problems. Over the past three years she visited her own apartment a few times only, for short periods of time. And never felt there at home. 

"How come you don't have a wife and kids by now?" She snorts, but it comes out bitter and wistful. 

She's not exactly sure what would she do if Bucky sorted his life enough to start a relationship with someone. As much as she liked to believe she's indifferent, there's a vicious part in her that could cause a lot of damage. The thought scares her.

"I doubt you'd said yes if I asked." Bucky retorts, not the least sheepish. 

When her neck nearly snaps with how swiftly Peggy moves her head to look at him, Bucky only gives her a pointed look. She's not particularly surprised with his admission, more with how forthright he is about it. 

"Probably not," she nods, dropping her gaze down. 

Taking a deep breath, Peggy stands up and rounds the counter. She nudges Bucky with her shoulder so he makes room for her, then slides the cutting board toward herself. He studies her for a moment as she begins working on the bell peppers before shaking himself from the stupor. He gets another board and takes a spot right next to her. His arm brushes against hers with every move of the knife. 

"You could've tried in Venezuela," Peggy says, corners of her mouth tilting. "I was high enough to say yes. Plus, the whole knight in shining armor thing worked to your advantage." 

A part of her was immensely disappointed he hadn't stayed with her in the hospital, only left her with suspicions and trails dispersing like smoke. 

"I want it to be something you  _want_ , not a result of adrenaline rush. We've had enough of those decisions in our lives." He can feel Peggy's gaze on him, probably stunned that he hadn't denied his participation in rescuing her.

"I was counting on you reaching out to me afterwards. And by reaching out I mean you coming here instead of hiring a PI to be a pain in my ass." 

That he's learned of Jessica isn't much of a surprise. The fact he let it continue is. 

"Wait-" Peggy puts the knife aside and turns to face Bucky. She crosses arms over her chest. "You knew about Jones and didn't put an end to it?"

Bucky shakes his head with an exasperated sigh. Without a word, he cuts the last tomato, then Peggy's unfinished pepper, and tosses all the pieces into the batter. He disposes the boards and knives in the sink and, finally, turns to Peggy. 

"I knew you needed it," he says, arms braced on the counter behing him. "To know if I'm safe."

His understanding of something Peggy herself had trouble defining grates on her nerves. The softness of Bucky's voice makes it all worse. 

It feels as if he sees right through her, reading all the bullshit for what it really is. It's something Peggy has difficulty accepting. In her head she made a list of reasons why disrespecting Bucky's privacy was justified, but all of them were tied to Peggy's unapologetic, negative self-perception. She told herself it's because she's a mean, controlling bitch. She refused to acknowledge there's a twisted care behind it. 

Caring meant feelings. Peggy really hates dealing with those. 

"Maybe I just wanted to have you on a leash!" She snaps at him, shifting her gaze to the side. 

Tears pool in her eyes and she blinks repeatedly to chase them away. 

"Jesus, Peg." Bucky reaches her in two strides. "I've been on your fucking leash since Morocco!"

She remains silent, though tears stream free down her face. Bucky's hand moves to her shoulder and Peggy lets him pull her into his embrace. It's scary how much she wants to stay like this. Unfortunately, there's a bees nest that needs to be poked.

Peggy twirls out of Bucky's grasp and runs out of the kitchen. He can hear her rushed footsteps across the wooden floor until she stops in the hallway. Habit urges him to follow her, but he's been running after her for years and maybe it's finally time to stop. 

Heaviness settles in Bucky's chest. Panic which he wasn't prepared to relive. A cold wave washes over him, starting a tremor in the tips of his fingers. He slams his hands on the countertop and bows his head low.

"Fuck!" 

He waits for the sound of the door shutting to break down in his misery. 

The floor in the living room creaks and Bucky looks up instantly. 

Peggy walks toward him so slowly now, hesitation clear in each step she takes. She's clutching a piece of paper in her fingers, her hand trembling. She stops opposite of him, kitchen counter separating them. For a moment Bucky feels Peggy's using this barrier to shield herself from his reaction.

"This is why I came." She places the photograph on the counter, blank side up so Bucky can't make what's on it.  

Peggy's finges rest atop it, shaking despite her obvious attempt to regain control over herself. There's also a particular softness to the way she rubs the pads of her fingers over the glossy paper. 

"It's fucking shitty of me to say it, but you deserve at least my honesty," she slowly looks up at Bucky. Her eyes are red-rimmed, still shining with tears. "I- I'm not sure I would come to you today if not for this photo. I'm not saying I would never reach out, but-"

"But it's a fair assumption it would take you a few years, at least." Bucky snorts bitterly. 

"Yes, well, I'm fucked up." Peggy shoots him an annoyed look.

Bucky shakes his head and straightens. His body relaxes slightly, which irks Peggy in her tense state. 

"You don't get to do that, Peggy." He tells her, his tone calm and only a little bit tired. "You don't get to provoke me into defending you from your own self-hatred. Not when you just admitted you're not here for us, but for something I might be usefull in. I'm not going to be a device to your schemes." 

It stings like a slap. Peggy guesses the pain is even worse because of his latter assumption. She's made many mistakes in regards to their relationship, but has never treated James as a tool to be used in any of the cases, nor in private life. 

"It is about us." Peggy slides the picture toward him. "It's very much about us." 

Bucky frowns at that, his gaze shifts between the photo and Peggy's face. Her eyes are fixated on the picture, her face pales. 

"For the last few months I've been in Eastern Europe. A part of our current operations net required doing a little recon of the far, south-eastern Siberia. Irkutsk Oblast to be exact. It's not a part of CIA's active interest at the moment, but one of our marks was there and it drew attention. We've obtained a few photographs of the isolated area of an abandoned distillery that he went to, and surrounding households, suspecting it's a terrorist cell's quarters. There was no sign of missiles, but-"

Peggy's voice breaks a little. She clears her throat, ignoring Bucky's concerned look, and continues.

"The drone took a picture of someone heavily guarded being transported from one of the houses into the distillery when our mark came. Focused on the weapons and radiation they paid it little attention. They don't give a fuck about hostages anyway." She adds bitterly. They never cared for hostages, unless they were the source of sensitive information, or when public found out. 

"But I saw. I saw him and-" Peggy takes her hand away from the photo. She clasps her hands together and lifts them to her mouth, biting on one of her thumbs.

Bucky studies her face for a long moment, suddenly feeling anxious. There's this look in her eyes that worries him. Like she's haunted by a nightmare. 

Taking a deeper breath, he reaches for the picture and flips it over. 

The image is grainy, colors dull. A close up of a man lead forward between two armed hostiles. He's hunched, his head slightly bowed. Buzzcut hair, a beard obscuring his features. But there's something in his face that Bucky can't look away from. 

The man looks familiar. He looks...

"That's impossible." Bucky croaks out, his hand shaking as he brings the photograph closer to his face. 

"It's-"

"No!" Bucky slams the picture onto the counter. "No, Peggy! It's not fucking possible!" 

Blood buzzes in his head, a rush of it makes him dizzy. Though his stomach is empty, he feels like lurching and vomiting. 

He braces his hands on the counter, steadying himself as images swarm in his mind. Flashes of explosion - flames licking his arm in an exruciating pain, clouds of smoke choking him, filling his vision. The rubbles beneath his bloody fingers felt hot and so fucking heavy as he tried to dig through them. Endless ringing in his ears. 

He has trouble breathing, the smoke burning his lungs.

Someone pulls him, causing a jolt of pain to flare in his left arm. It takes Bucky a long moment to realize someone's arms wrap around him and something soft touches his chest. It tickles. 

Peggy has to use force to pull Bucky's rigid form from the counter. She hugs him, pressing her face into his bare chest. Her hands stroke his back in a soothing rhythm. She tries to keep her breathing deep and regular, void of any shaking, so Bucky can follow it instinctively. 

When he closes his arms around her and buries his face in the crook of her neck Peggy lets out a little cry of her own. 

"There was nothing left." Bucky's voice cracks. It's quiet and shaky when he murmurs into Peggy's shoulder. 

Peggy only manages to nod. She went through every detail of that fubar operation and it's outcome. Nearly drove herself into fatal exhaustion in the days after the explosion as she spent every moment she wasn't with Bucky in the hospital searching the perimeter of the explosion, inch by inch. Looking for anything that could bring a miracle, or an answer.

No bodies to identify, only... pieces. And a shield stuck in the metal door leading to the underground shelter. They figured Steve tried opening the door to find safety, but couldn't make it in time. 

Peggy went through every channel, through every informer, seeking for the mole that turned their mission into a fucking execution. Got her hands dirty while doing so and her heart remorselessly cold.  

"I know," she replies. "But he looks  _exactly_  like Steve."

There's despair in her voice, one Bucky fears of reliving himself. Slowly, he pulls away. He cups Peggy's face, a pained expression on his face.

"What are the chances of someone imprisoning an American soldier for four years and never making it known? No demands, no threats, no public video. Why would they keep him?"

"I don't think that's- that's him."  He closes his eyes and shakes his head, intent on crushing the seed of foolish hope that germinated in his heart. 

"But what if it is?" Peggy says in small voice, a hopeful timbre accompanied by a single tear trailing down her cheek. "Are you willing to take a chance? To leave him there?"

"Fuck you, Peggy!" Bucky pushes abruptly away. 

He looks at her with such rage she flinches. But chooses to stand her ground, watching him pace back and forth. 

Fingers of his right hand wrap around his left wrist in a tight grasp then slide up his arm, rubbing scarred flesh. With a huff he drops both arms to his sides, fists clenching, before moving them sharply again with his next step. Bucky rubs his hands over his face and nervously combs fingers through his hair, cursing under his breath. 

Peggy puts her foot forward, hesitates, and steps back. She hadn't been there for Bucky's full recovery, doesn't know how to approach him in this state without risking worsening his agitation.

Suddenly, Bucky takes a sharp swing, sending the bowl with batter straight into the wall. It crashes into pieces, few shards of glass landing at Bucky's bare feet.

He finally stops. 

Silence stretches in a thick web around them. Peggy can only hear her own heart hammering in her chest. It starts to hurt. 

"Do you know what it means?" Bucky asks gravely, with his back still to Peggy. "We've failed him."

"No." Peggy shakes her head and takes a step forward. "If you want to do the whole guilt tripping thing, I can spend at least an hour proving that  _I'm_  the one who failed both of you. But honestly, I'd prefer to just cry for a few more minutes and then start thinking on how to procede. We can pickle in blame on our way to Siberia." 

"Bullshit," his voice sounds surprisingly soft now.

Bucky slowly turns, a ghost of a broken smile on his face. There are tears in his eyes and Peggy feels her own heart clenching at the sight. She remembers how helpless she felt, unable to calm his sobbing, when he laid in the hospital bed in Herat. 

"Bullshit," he repeats, wiping his cheek. "You never want to cry."

Peggy rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches in a barely contained smile. She crosses her arms and tilts her chin.

"Yes, well, you have a bad influence on me." She says, but the gaiety she aimed for falters under the burden of the situation. She doubts either of them will be able to lightheartedly tease the other any time soon. 

Bucky slowly walks over to her, stopping with his toes touching hers. They look like a messed reflection of each other, with their tears-streaked faces, forced little smiles, and bleeding hearts. 

He touches her hand - tip of his finger softly ghosting over her skin, evoking goosebumps up Peggy's arm. Bucky runs his finger up her arm then down again. Peggy's fingers twitch in response.

"It doesn't change things between us." He murmurs, focusing his gaze on a shiny smudge on Peggy's cheek. 

"The hell it doesn't!" She protests, looking at him like he'd lost his mind. 

Bucky rolls his eyes at her completely predictable reaction. He wonders if she's aware it's fear of losing someone close to her again that has her sabotaging their relationship. 

"It fucks up our lives. It's gonna trigger some bad thoughts." He nods, more to himself than to her. "But I still fucking love you." 

Peggy stares at him. Her lips are parted, but no sound comes out. What Bucky considers a good sign is the fact she doesn't pull away, especially with him saying words on which Peggy herself might choke, though she used to say it before- 

Remembrance squeezes his throat. A threat of a recurring panic causes Bucky to refrain from dwelling on the topic. At least for now.

"Deal with it." He seals a light peck on her forehead then brushes past her, needing to find himself an activity to focus on. 

Frozen in place, Peggy listens to the sounds of Bucky moving around the apartment. She places her hand on the counter, needing a sense of support she could lean on if her legs buckled. 

Mindlessly, she rubs her fingertips on the cool, hard marble. 

"Yeah," Peggy says under her breath. "I fucking love you too."

 

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> For those interested in a possible continuation – I have it all planned out in my head, but it doesn't mean I will ever write it. Besides, it wouldn't be all hearts and rainbows. More broken people, broken things, as well consequences to some actions taking place here.


End file.
